


places

by barthelme



Series: cleverer and cleverest; we've both been climbing everest [3]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 10:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: this is almost a decade old.  bartbarthelme on tumblr.





	places

**Author's Note:**

> this is almost a decade old. bartbarthelme on tumblr.

Iker gets a phone call. At first, there’s just heavy breathing over background noise and Iker rolls his eyes, thinks, “Oh, great. I need to change my number.” He’s about to hang up when he hears it. A sharp thwack followed by a short, muffled cry. And then, “Say it.” The voice isn’t close to the phone, probably a few feet away. But even with that distance, Iker recognizes it. And the tone—the firm, calm tone—goes straight to Iker’s cock. His heart stutters.

“Please, Geri.” This voice is closer, almost deafening. The breath comes in heavy pants and Iker pictures him, face down on the bed, mouth open.

There’s another thwack, and Iker tries to place it. It’s not a hand, not a paddle. A belt? Maybe a belt. Iker licks his lips, puts a hand against the counter. His mail sits on the counter, unopened. Sara’s watching television in the living room. He feels he should go to the bathroom, lock the door. But he can’t bring himself to move, can’t bring himself to make a noise.

“Say it, Cesc.”

He can almost see Pique standing behind Cesc. He’s probably clothed, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Staring down at Cesc, maybe tracing over a welt with his free hand.

“I,” Cesc starts, pauses and gasps for air. “I can’t.”

And this time, the sounds are Pique’s hands, harsh and repetitive, each slap followed by a loud grunt. Finally, there’s silence and then Pique’s voice is closer. “Tell him.” His hand’s in Cesc’s hair, Iker can tell. Pulling his head back, bringing his torso off the bed. “Tell him now, or it’s off.”

And Cesc’s gasping his name, “Iker, Iker,” his voice hoarse, weak. “I want you to fuck me. I want your fat cock in me.”

Iker almost drops his phone, but he tightens his grip, bites his lip.

“I want you to fuck my mouth and,” Cesc groans, “God, I want to suck you. I want your dick in my mouth, Iker.”

There’s a slap, hand on cheek, and a soft, “Good boy.” A bit of rustling and Pique’s voice is loud and clear now. “You in, Casillas?”

Iker knows he should hang up, but he nods and whispers, “Yeah.” His voice is almost inaudible. In the living room, Sara changes the channel.

“What was that?” Pique asks. “I couldn’t hear you, Casillas.”

“I said, yes.”

“Good. But the next time I ask you a question, you better answer me. Now, when can you come to Barcelona?”

After El Clasico, Iker was expecting something. Anything, really. What he got was a quick hug outside the locker room, a trite, “Nice game, Iker.” And Pique’s eyes had said it all. They said, “Not like this. Not right now.” And Iker fumed. When he needed it most—when he wanted it most—Pique ignored him.

And he knows it was his fault, knows he shouldn’t have put his hands on him. But there was a distinct line that couldn’t be crossed and they both knew it. They both know it. And on the pitch, well. Tables are turned, positions are switched. When Pique backed down, Iker was both exhilarated and disappointed.

When he watched the playbacks, he was so turned on it was embarrassing. He kept thinking about Pique, staring down at Iker as he shoved against his chest, his glare daring Iker to continue. Daring him to try.

Anyways, he assumed Pique would call, maybe even stop by. But there was nothing. No contact until the phone call. Until Cesc.

Iker isn’t able to leave until the weekend. He tells Sara he’s visiting Xavi; she even drives him to the airport, kisses him goodbye. And he feels bad, terrible. Knows he should be spending the weekend in bed with her.

The entire plane ride he feels sick to his stomach. He tries reading but realizes ten pages in that he has no idea what going on. He stares out the window. In the end, he thinks about Cesc.

Cesc isn’t someone Iker thinks about on a daily basis. Hell, up until Pique, he didn’t think about him much at all. Every now and then, he’d glance at him in the showers, watch him drying off in the locker room. But it was nothing big.

Now. God, all he can think about is Cesc, bent over, clutching the back of a chair or the edge of a bed. Bent over Pique’s knees. Bent over Iker’s knees. Ass red, eyes wet.

And he sees pictures of him at events, after games. His eyes are bright, smile wide. And Iker wants to fuck him. The thought makes him sick, makes him sad. Makes him angry.

His stomach churns until he gets off the plane and he looks into the crowd, finds Pique standing a head above everyone in the crowd. He’s chewing gum, and staring forward. Not bored, not annoyed, just waiting. When he sees Iker, he smirks and takes a step forward, pulling someone with him.

Cesc.

He grins when he sees Iker and looks as though he wants to run ahead of Pique, but he stays a step behind, half hidden. Iker grips his carry on, knuckles white. When they’re within earshot, Pique grins and asks, “Ready?”

And Iker nods.

Pique leans down, wraps a hand around Iker’s wrist and squeezes. His lips press against Iker’s ear. “What did I say about answering me?”

During the car ride home, Iker catches Pique’s eyes in the mirror. He smiles, but Pique looks away and reaches across the console to take Cesc’s hand. He runs his thumb over the back of Cesc’s palm, brings Cesc’s hand to his lips and kisses. “Geri,” Cesc starts, laughs. He turns in the seat and looks at Iker, bites his lip.

Iker catches Pique’s eyes in the rearview, again. This time, Pique focuses on him, cocks an eyebrow.

Pique’s house is a lot like Iker expected. Bare walls, plain, oversized furniture. The guest room has a bed, a nightstand, and plenty of unpacked boxes. Iker momentarily wonders why Pique puts him in the guest bedroom. But he doesn’t question it, just sets his bag down and says, “Thanks.”

Cesc orders pizza and by the time it arrives, Pique’s three beers into the night and Cesc’s in pajamas. Iker’s drinking Coke and idly watching them play FIFA. When Pique stands up to get the door, he tosses the controller in Iker’s lap and says, “Don’t lose my lead.” He’s up by three. When he walks by Cesc, Pique trails his fingers through his hair, tugs on his ear lobe. Cesc looks up and grins.

Iker admits, “I haven’t played in a long time,” and makes his way to the floor. What he means to say is, “I’ve only played like twice and both times I lost by like ten.”

“I’ll take it easy on you,” Cesc says, and gives him a few pointers.

When Pique gets back, he drops the pizza on the floor in front of them and drapes an arm over Cesc’s shoulders. He feeds Cesc a bit of pizza, then takes a large bite himself. “You want a beer, Iker? Another coke? I have juice.”

Iker tries to make a shot and Cesc refrains from blocking it. It’s off target, anyways. “I’m good.” He watches out of the corner of his eyes as Pique rests his head against Cesc’s, turns so his lips graze Cesc’s neck. He whispers something, low, and Cesc laughs. There’s something about them that makes Iker’s gut wrench. It’s not jealousy but. It’s something. “I’m terrible,” Iker says, offering the controller back to Pique.

“You’re doing fine,” Pique assures him, but he takes the remote, holding the crust of his pizza in his mouth.

Iker takes a piece of pizza and picks off the pepperoni, throwing them back on the lid. Cesc notices and says, “Gimme those,” opening his mouth. It’s unnaturally spread.

“Cesc,” Pique says and the tone of his voice.

God.

Iker doesn’t know if he’ll make it through the weekend.

“Sorry,” Cesc whispers, then asks, “Iker, may I have those?” He opens his mouth, this time sticking his tongue out a bit.

Iker picks up a piece and brings it to Cesc’s lips. He can feel Pique watching. He presses past Cesc’s lips and places the pepperoni in his mouth. When he pulls back, he runs his fingers over Cesc’s lower lip, pulls it down so he can see his lower teeth. He wipes his hand on his jeans and watches Cesc chew.

“What do you say?” Pique asks, voice absent.

Cesc puts the game on pause and swallows. He turns to Iker, leans over and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, Iker. May I have another?” And his voice is testing, teasing. Pique snorts.

Iker turns to look at Cesc, reaches up and grabs his jaw. He’s firm, but gentle. “What was that?”

Cesc’s voice is hushed this time. “May I have another, please?”

Iker reaches for another piece of pepperoni as Pique says, “Okay, now unpause the game so I can continue beating your ass.”

Iker’s finished brushing his teeth and is walking down the hall when he hears Pique say, “Lay back.” He holds his breath and stops outside Pique’s bedroom. Iker braces himself for a slap, a strangled cry. But he gets silence, save for the creak of a bed spring. Fabric moves and Cesc laughs softly, whimpers. Finally, Pique whispers, “Tell me.” His voice is gentle. After a few moments of silence, he urges, “What do you want?”

“I don’t know.” Cesc’s voice is quiet, like he’s ashamed, embarrassed. Iker can tell he’s blushing, wonders how far the red travels down his neck, his chest.

“Do you want me to suck you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want my fingers?”

“Mmmhmm.” And Iker clenches his fist, waiting for Pique to strike out, tell him to answer him. It never happens.

“You have such a pretty cock,” Pique whispers and the words hit Iker, slap across his face. He walks to the guest room. Closes the door.

At breakfast, Cesc drinks coffee and stares at the table. He’s not a morning person. Pique, on the other hand, whistles while he flips pancakes, grins at Iker when he comes downstairs. “Morning.”

Iker has noticed that Pique’s usually in a good mood. Even when he shouldn’t be; even when people would tolerate a frown. “Morning,” Iker says. His voice cracks a bit. He looks around the kitchen for the coffee pot, smiles when Pique thrusts a cup in his hands. “Thanks.” He sits next to Cesc, who’s holding his head up with a hand pressed into his cheek.

“Did you sleep okay?” Pique asks as he pours batter into the pan.

Iker nods, sips his coffee. It’s strong. When Pique brings the pancakes over, he rubs Cesc’s back, slips his fingers under the collar of his shirt. When he lets go, he trails his hand along Iker’s neck and cups his cheek momentarily. Iker remembers how big Pique’s hands are. How strong and warm. He leans into the touch for a moment until it’s gone, and Pique’s whistling again and Cesc grunts, “Syrup.” He blinks, slow, then looks up at Iker. “Pass the syrup, please.”

Cesc’s showering and Iker’s helping Pique load the dishwasher. Pique is lining glasses up when he says, “If I tell you to stop, you stop.”

Iker freezes, almost drops the plate he’s holding.

“And, if Cesc tells you to stop, you stop.” He stands up and wipes his hands on his pants. He’s wearing black pajama bottoms. They’re a bit too short. “You don’t come inside him or on him. You don’t hit his face. And if he looks at you,” Pique steps closer to Iker, presses his hand against Iker’s shoulder, pushes down, holding Iker in place. “If he looks at you like he’s unsure, you stop, okay?”

Iker nods.

Pique grins. “What did I say about answering me, Casillas?”

Iker goes out for lunch with Xavi. This way, he feels like he’s not lying. Not completely, at least. Xavi picks him up and takes him to some sandwich place. He must come here a lot because no one pays much attention when they walk in. They sit in a back corner and Xavi says, “So, Pique.”

And Iker shrugs his shoulders and takes a bite. It’s good. Too much lettuce, though. “Yeah.”

“And Cesc.” Iker stares at him for a moment, worried that Pique’s said something. “They’re a lot to handle.”

“It’s not bad.”

Xavi looks at him as if to say, “Are you kidding me?” But he drops it. Simply asks, “What’s up with them, anyways?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Xavi laughs and sips his Coke. It’s diet. “How’s Sara?”

“Good. She finished moving in last month. It’s nice, but.” Iker stops, not really sure what the but is. “I don’t know. It’s different.” A good different at times. Like when he gets up in the middle of the night to pee, then comes back to bed and she’s so warm, arms open. And after training, when he’s sore, and tired and she sits in front of him, kisses the inside of his thigh, massages his knee. It’s good.

“I like her,” Xavi notes. He knows it matters, means something to Iker. “I think she’s good for you. Not too clingy.” Iker nods in agreement. “It’s like, she supports you but at the same time realizes that you can stand on your own. Like she’s willing to let you stand on your own. Do your own thing.”

“Yeah. It’s good. It’s really good.”

“I know. So, don’t fuck it up.”

Iker wants to ask when he’s ever fucked a relationship up. Then he thinks about where he is. And why. “I’m trying not to.”

Iker spends more time with Xavi than he’d planned. They wander around town before heading back to Pique’s. Iker asks if he wants to come in and Xavi puts his car into idle. “I like Pique. I like him even more after I’ve had a break from him. Say hi to Cesc for me.” Iker leans over and kisses Xavi’s cheek, pats his thigh. “You’re spending too much time with Ramos,” Xavi sighs, but he presses his hand against Iker’s cheek and grins.

Iker finds Pique in the living room. “Have fun?” Pique asks. He doesn’t look away from the television. He’s watching some American sitcom; Iker can only understand bits and pieces.

“Yeah, I did. What’ve you guys been up to?” Iker stands by the couch, watches the television. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Cesc’s in the bedroom,” Pique says, as if it explains everything. When Iker doesn’t respond, he says, “He didn’t have a good day. Do you want to watch something else?”

“No, this is good.” Iker sits because Pique’s voice is firm and controlled. He watches people move across the screen and gets a feel for what’s going on. After a few minutes, he asks, “What did he do?”

“Just whining because you were gone. Being impatient. You want something to eat?”

“No.”

“Okay.” They watch TV in silence for a few minutes. Iker wonders how Pique can be so calm when he’s sent Cesc to bed, like he’s grounding him. Punishing him. He wonders how often this happens, if it always happens. It’s clearly not all the time. So when is it on? When is it off? Do they even know?

Iker’s sure this isn’t like the hotel room, isn’t as easy. Pique looks like he’s actually upset, actually in pain.

Iker asks, “How long does he have to stay up there?”

Pique shrugs. “Until he can act like an adult.”

And Iker wants to tell him he’s just a kid, too. That this isn’t his responsibility, he doesn’t have to do this. Pique looks at Iker and he looks bored, tired.

“He can come down whenever he wants.” Gerard looks away, asks, “How’s Sara?” There’s no lilt to his voice, no hidden messages. Just a question.

Iker watches the television. “She’s fine. Her sister’s coming to visit next weekend.”

It’s another hour before Iker hears Cesc coming down the stairs. The footsteps are slow, seemingly tentative, and Iker’s breath is pushed down his throat with every step. When Cesc appears, his eyes are red and sleepy and his hair is matted on one side. He’s in gym shorts that fall past his knees and what looks like one of Pique’s undershirts. His head is low as he shuffles his bare feet across the floor and comes to stand in front of Pique.

Pique doesn’t look up; he stares at Cesc’s abdomen as though he can see the television through it, like Cesc is a window. His eyes are glazed and wide, eyebrows lifted. His jaw is fixed, arms crossed over his chest.

Iker can tell Cesc is looking at him, can tell he wants him to go. He moves to stand up, but Pique stops him. “Sit.” And Iker does.

Cesc folds his arms behind his back and it looks uncomfortable, but his joints seem to move comfortably. He scratches the back of his calf with his toe. “I’m sorry for the way I acted.”

“Are you ready to behave like an adult?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I am ready to behave like an adult.”

Iker swallows thickly. Pique looks up at Cesc. “Alright. Then sit down.”

Cesc sits on the floor, between Iker and Pique’s legs. He rests his head on Pique’s knee. There’s a long silence and a commercial break before Pique rests his hand on Cesc’s head, threads his fingers through his hair.

When Pique gets up to go to the bathroom Cesc kneels in front of Iker. “Don’t you want to fuck me?” He tilts his face and presses his palms against Iker’s thighs. There’s an air of impatience in his voice, a glare of annoyance.

Iker tenses, sits up a bit. He looks down the hall, sees the bathroom door shut. “What?”

Cesc’s hands slide up, pushing at Iker’s shirt, fingers pressing against his stomach. “He’s not going to just give you permission, you know.” He pushes his hands up further, brushes his thumbs over Iker’s nipples. “He’s just waiting on you.”

Iker thinks he could be hard right now, would be hard, if the toilet wasn’t flushing. Cesc pulls away and moves back to sit on the floor, pressing his back against the couch. When Pique sits down, he reaches for Cesc’s hair and tugs until Cesc moves to the couch, wrapping and arm around Pique’s neck and leaning into his chest. He throws his legs over Pique’s lap, rests his feet against Iker’s thighs. His toes feel cold and after a moment he tucks them under Iker’s leg. Iker looks over, watches as Cesc kisses up Pique’s neck, across his cheek, his lips. Pique kisses back, laps his tongue over Cesc’s lower lip.

When Cesc pulls back, his lips are wet, parted. The pair share a look and after a long moment, Pique nods and Cesc smiles. He climbs out of Pique’s lap and kneels next to Iker. His hand comes up to Iker’s cheek and Iker takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets Cesc kiss him. Lets Cesc suck his lower lip between his teeth. Just as Iker’s leaning into him, Cesc pulls back and licks his lips.

Pique’s still watching television.

Iker’s brushing his teeth when he hears Cesc says, “Leave the door open.”

Footsteps shuffle and Pique says, “But—”

“Please?”

Iker spits, rinses. He opens the door and looks across the hall, tries not to stare, but it’s obvious he’s looking. Gerard’s standing at the foot of his bed, jeans low on his hips, torso bare. Cesc’s on the bed, knees bent and spread. He’s wearing black briefs and his limbs are thin, his abs are tight. He looks over and locks eyes with Iker. Iker immediately looks to Pique, whose eyes are narrowed and focused on Cesc. His shoulders are squared and Iker thinks he looks big, bigger than he does on the pitch and bigger than he did back in the hotel room.

Iker’s in the doorway, now. He braces himself with a hand against the frame and his biceps twitch as he watches Pique’s hands come to his belt, flipping the buckle and pulling the leather strap out with a sharp tug. He thinks about the phone call, Cesc’s sharp cries, and his dick is pulsing. When he looks at Cesc and sees how wide his eyes are, how they fidget from Iker, to Pique’s face, to Gerard’s belt, which is now sitting on the corner of the bed like a warning, like a promise.

Pique’s pants fall to the floor and he says, “Well?”

Cesc sits up, pushes himself to his knees. He crawls over to Pique and his ass is up in the air, thighs taut, arms abs sucked in. There’s a short hesitation and then he’s pressing his face against Pique’s briefs, nosing at his erection.

Iker looks at Pique, who stares back at him, like he did in the kitchen, in the car. On the pitch.

His cock twitches and he takes a step into the bedroom. Pique smirks and runs a hand down Cesc’s spine. “Want a cock in your mouth?” Cesc nods, rubs his cheek against Pique’s dick.

Cesc looks up, his eyes big, dark. “Please.”

There’s something that Iker can’t put his thumb on, something he can’t figure out. He looks between their faces, watches the way Cesc stares up, arches his back, the way Pique rubs Cesc’s spine. When he looks at Cesc, he’s reminded of what he said in the living room and thinks, maybe it’s not Pique’s place to be giving permission.

Maybe it’s not Pique’s place to take control.

Cesc’s pushing down Pique’s briefs when Iker steps into the room, makes his way to the bed. Cesc stops, his hands braced on Pique’s thighs, eyes closed.

Iker touches Cesc’s side, trails a hand down to his ass, and slaps. It’s not hard, but hard enough, and Cesc shoulders drop and fingers tighten on Pique’s thighs.

Iker licks his lips, squeezes Cesc’s ass. “Well? It’s not nice to keep him waiting.”

Cesc groans and opens his mouth, letting Pique’s cock slip past his lips. This time, when Pique looks at Iker, his eyes are lidded. “Take your clothes off, Casillas,” Pique says. His voice is steady.

Iker strips, drops his clothes to the floor and moves to stand next to Pique. He feels dwarfed next to him. Iker reaches out, presses a hand against the back of Cesc’s head, pushing him down on Pique’s cock. “Now, I know you can do better than that.” Cesc moans on Pique’s cock, hitches his ass in the air. He tugs on his hair, pushes and pulls, until Cesc starts moving on his own , swallowing Pique’s cock down. He breathes through his nose, clutches at the quilt.

Iker moves back to Cesc’s ass and pulls his briefs down to his knees. He looks at Pique for permission but finds his eyes clenched shut. Mouth open. It’s the same look Sara has when Iker’s between her legs, tongue pressing against her clit, fingers pushed inside. When she’s gasping softly and whispering, “Iker, fuck, Iker.”

Suddenly, he gets it, understands. “Gerard,” he whispers, and waits until Pique looks at him, opens his eyes. He shakes his head and opens his mouth to say he can’t do this, won’t do this. And it’s not for lack of want (because, fuck, his cock hasn’t been this hard since the hotel room, since Gerard), but for inability. The knowledge that this isn’t his place.

Pique blinks at him like he knows, then backs away from Cesc, pulling his cock from his mouth. He leans down and kisses Cesc, chaste, and asks, “What do you want?”

Breathless, Cesc gasps, “I want him to fuck me.”Cesc spreads his legs as much as he can, arches his back even more.

When Pique stands up and presses his cock back to Cesc’s hungry lips, he realizes that this has nothing to do with Pique.

Iker fucks Cesc with his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Probably a bit too rough, forcing his way inside, slapping his ass until dark marks surface and glow. Cesc gives up on Pique, resorts to jerking him off, crying out with each thrust, groaning with each slap.

When Iker finishes, he falls back against the pillows, comes over his own hand. Cesc scrambles, tries to clean him up, but Iker pushes him away and reaches for his shirt on the floor. Wipes his hand off, cleans the lube off his dick. “Lay down,” he urges Cesc, spreading his legs to make room for him. Cesc turns and lays between Iker’s thigh, lets Iker pull his legs up, open him. “Tell him what you want, Cesc.”

Pique’s still at the end of the bed, cock hard, red.

“Tell him.”

Cesc moans and reaches down, spreads his cheeks. “I want you in me, Geri. Want you to come in me.” There’s a desire there that Iker hasn’t heard from Cesc, a need that puts Iker in his place.

When Pique fucks Cesc, it’s hard and deep. He comes inside him, buries his face into Cesc’s neck. “What do you want, Cesc?”

Cesc’s hands move to Iker’s legs and he squeezes, lets his head fall against Iker’s thigh. “I don’t know.”

Iker watches as Pique presses his lips to Cesc’s temple, whispers something low in his ear. Cesc nods furiously and whimpers when Pique pulls out, moves down his body. Takes Cesc’s cock in his mouth.

Iker smoothes Cesc’s hair back and holds his hand when he comes.

Iker has an early flight. Cesc’s wakes up to say goodbye, but falls back asleep almost immediately. It’s still dark outside.

During the car ride, Pique asks about Iker’s plans for the break. Iker’s not entirely sure, nothing’s been finalized. “We might just have a quiet holiday at home,” he says.

Pique nods. “You’re lucky,” he says. It’s a statement, not a jealous remark. A simple,“Be thankful for what you have.”

Iker reaches across the console to squeeze Pique’s thigh. He wants to say something, but every word sounds cheesy or forced. He wants to say, “In the end, it will be you.” But he’s certain it won’t sound right, won’t be believable. He settles for, “You’re a good guy, Gerard.”

Pique reaches for Iker’s hand and squeezes, brings it to his lips. “That’s not what he wants.”

Iker stares forward and clutches his carry on. “It will be.” He wishes he could tell Cesc to knock it off, quit fucking around like this.

But, like most things, it’s not his place.


End file.
